


Eschaton

by WolfOfAnsbach



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, Jewish-Roman War, Religion, War, everyone has a 1st century Mediterranean version of their name, of course there's war, there's always war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfOfAnsbach/pseuds/WolfOfAnsbach
Summary: The year is AD 66.Jerusalem is swallowed up in revolt as Judaea rises against its Roman masters.Cassia Flora, sister of Rome's legate in the city, only narrowly escapes the wrath of the zealot mobs. She hides away with Verenike of Antioch, along with her brother, Jason, the centurion Faustus 'Jughead' Junius, and Elisheva, a strange young woman who worships a crucified god. The bizarre little band hopes to ride out the worst of the storm, until an opportunity presents itself to slip out of the city.But the rebel chief Menahem, self-proclaimed messiah and King of Israel, is close behind. And he will stop at nothing to scour Jerusalem of the Roman scourge.
Relationships: Cheryl Blossom/Veronica Lodge
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Eschaton

**Author's Note:**

> I have this thing where the names in a piece I'm writing have to be at least ROUGHLY period accurate. So I just couldn't write a story set in first century Palestine and have people named like...Cheryl or Archie. So I tried to come up with the closest possible equivalents. Should be pretty obvious.

**Jerusalem, Roman province of Judaea**

**AD 66**

“Very well, Jason kills me, then Arcas will kill Jason, and then Arcas and you may kill yourselves. Is that agreeable to all?” Cassia Flora clasped her hands and smiled pleasantly.

“Why do _we_ have to kill ourselves?” Complained Faustus ‘Jughead’ Junius. He crossed his arms and spared a moment to sneak a look through the fortress parapet. What he saw evidently did not nerve him. The young centurion turned back, face pale. He removed his helmet and laid it on the window ledge, evidently figuring it too uncomfortable to die in.

“Matter of social grace,” Cassia flipped a few strands of red hair out of her eyes. “They must be maintained, you know. Even here. A lady should not have to tuck a blade between her own ribs if a present gentleman is perfectly capable of performing the duty _for_ her.” She crept over to the blocky tower window. The crowd in the courtyard below had grown. They dressed primarily in heavy desert robes, black or rustic brown. Few carried swords or blades of any sort—they wielded clubs and torches and tools of the land. Most had come in from the country, following that mad bandit Menahem, who had paraded into Jerusalem in the manner of a king only days before. Wild beards obscured their faces, save for the dark hateful eyes flashing beneath bronzed, sweaty brows. Cassia estimated their number at perhaps a thousand. And growing.

Heaps of corpses lay at the foot of the fortress, where the insurgents’ unsuccessful attacks had been beaten off in the past two days. But it hardly looked like they would be able to hold out any longer. Hence a different sort of escape beckoned—

“Right, then,” Arcas Andronicus cut in. Not even the impending fact of his own death seemed capable of dampening the big Greek's good cheer. He spread his muscled arms and forced a smile. “How about I kill everyone, _then_ kill myself? No one else has to worry about it.”

Cassia shoved her tongue into her cheek.

The zealot mob below began its chant again: “The Day of the Lord has come! _Halle-lu-jah_!”

They pressed in tighter on the fortress. Cassia stuck her head through the window, very briefly. She stole a glance to the south, where she could just make out the outer courts of the temple. An idea developed in her head.

Then Jason stormed into the room, red cape flecked with dust. His _gladius_ was already drawn. Cassia noticed her brother’s blade was dripping red. She raised her eyebrows.

“A few of them just tried to come in through the eastern ramparts,” he said. “They’ll be through the gates within the hour, likely.” He extended his sword towards her. “Will you do it, or shall I?”

“That’s been the topic of some heated discussion, actually,” Cassia said. “As of the last word, I believe we were considering that _you_ kill me, Arcas kills you, and—”

“No, last we said, _domina_ ,” Jughead interrupted. “I was under the impression _I_ would kill Arcas, and then _I_ would kill _you_ , and th—”

“Oh, hush,” Cassia interjected. “You just want to kill me. But anyhow,” she turned back to her brother. “What if no one need die at all? At least, of those present in this room?”

Outside, there was a heavy clattering as the legionaries on the walls rained down spears and stones in one last desperate bid to keep the rebels out.

Jason balked. “Would you rather they take you _alive_ , sister? I don’t think—”

“Listen. They could not make you on sight,” Cassia said, patting Jason’s armored shoulder. “Have Arcas take your place. Have him surrender the garrison to this…Menahem. While he does so, we will slip away.”

Jason appeared scandalized. “Hardly! I am a soldier of Rome! I’m not a coward to flee while my men die in my pl—”

“I’ll do it,” Arcas interrupted, immediately. He did indeed bear a resemblance to the legate Florus. He and Jason were both fair-skinned, standing at about six feet in height, and red of hair. If Menahem had only those markers by which to identify the commander of the Antonia Fortress—as he surely did—one could easily pass for the other. “It is an honor, Tribune,” Arcas went on, saluting, stiff-armed.

Jughead rolled his head. “Don’t be _absurd_ , man!”

“I will not ask that of you, brother,” Jason said.

“I will!” Cassia hissed.

“Please,” Arcas agreed. “If you can get away to Caesarea, you can return with ten times as many soldiers. Let me be worthwhile, legate. Let me do you—and Rome—this service.”

There was a silence.

Jason peeked down at the enemy once more. He signaled to his centurions that they seemed to have increased by nearly half.

“You’re certain?” Jason asked, cautiously.

“Yes,” Arcas said.

“Juno’s cunt!” Jughead spit.

“Oh, quiet,” Cassia admonished him. “Who knows? They may not even kill him.”

“ _May_?” Jughead questioned.

“How will we even slip off?” Jason asked his sister.

“Over the walls into the temple courtyard,” she answered. “And from there into the city.”

“The temple courtyard is crawling with Menahem’s dagger-men.”

“Yes, but they are expecting no Romans there, brother,” she said.

“And once we’ve gotten into the city?” Jughead interrupted. “Then where will we go? How do you intend to get outside the walls? Last _I_ saw, _domina_ , these men have the run of Jerusalem.”

“I have a _friend_ ,” Cassia said. “Who will surely conceal us from the wrath of these people.”

“You’re not talking about Hiram of Antioch’s daughter?” Jughead scoffed. “Verenike?”

“I am,” Cassia replied, a bit miffed that he’d guessed so quickly.

“Fuck! What makes you think she won’t hand us over to the _sicarii_ for a denarius?”

“Because,” Cassia said, not wishing to say any more. “She won’t.”

Jughead scoffed. Jason looked less than convinced.

“It’s worth trying,” Arcas said.

“It is _not_ ,” Jughead insisted.

“Are you _sure_?” Jason asked Arcas once more.

“Yes, _dominus_ ,” Arcas said.

Jason waited for a long moment. The mob of zealots began to sing outside.

“Very well. I won’t forget your sacrifice, brother. If you die this night, I’ll see you in the next world.”

“No doubt,” Arcas said. The two men shared a brief embrace.

Jason stripped of his breastplate and plumed helmet and handed them to the centurion. Arcas quickly slipped the helmet on and strapped the breastplate onto his chest.

“You,” Cassia jabbed a finger at Jughead. “Remover your armor. And helmet.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because you’re coming with us.”

“I am not! I’ll die here! I have no desire t—”

“I _order_ you,” Cassia hissed.

“You can’t order me to do a damned thing!”

“Jason!” Cassia whined. “Order him.”

“Take off your damned armor, man,” Jason told him, concealing his sword beneath the folds of his tunic.

Jughead grumbled and complied. Once the three men were stripped of all that identified them as Roman soldiers, the four stole out of the room, and towards the rear of the complex. Arcas paused, and then turned to head into the courtyard, where he would surrender the fortress in the guise of his commander. He and Jughead embraced.

“Travel well, brother,” Jughead said.

“Until I see you again.”

Then the three of them split off and continued, until they reached the fortress’ southern wall, which ran up against the walls of the Jewish temple complex. Cassia peered down the nearest window. It was perhaps fifteen feet onto the tiled temple courtyard wall. She winced at the prospect of a jump.

But then she turned and found that Jughead produced a length of hemp rope from somewhere. He handed it to Jason, who lashed it to one of the crenellations on the wall.

“Wait!” Jughead dashed into the southwest tower. He returned a moment later carrying two grimy cloaks and threw them to the legate and his sister. Cassia turned over the foul material in her hands. It was the sort of thing a beggar might wear.

“For what purpose?” she asked.

“If we’re going to be creeping through Jerusalem—the place is not exactly replete with the red-haired, _domina_.”

She scowled but dutifully slipped it on. So did Jason.

The coarse material scraped at her skin, and she feared it would leave her fine robes covered in irremovable dust and linen. Nevertheless.

Jason urged her to go first. Cassia gathered her courage and gripped the rope tight, swinging out over the edge of the wall. She shimmied down crudely, looking frequently over her shoulder into the temple courtyard, to be sure no one had spotted them yet.

Once she’d gotten about ten feet, she dropped. She struck the top of the courtyard wall and winced at the noise. But she drew no attention. Looking across the temple yard, the court of gentiles was largely emptied, since the majority of everyone in the area had gone around to watch or join in the siege of the Antonia Fortress. She saw a few men in dark robes milling about, but no one had seen them.

Jason dropped down afterwards, rather more gracefully. Jughead followed.

“Oh,” Jughead added. “And no Latin. Stick to Greek. And none of that fine patrician’s Greek, either.”

Cassia grumbled.

They dropped down once more into the courtyard, and slid into the shadows of the colonnades, where in more peaceful times the rabbis taught.

The trio moved quickly; heads bowed. Jughead walked with an awkward stride, sword knocking against his hip. They passed a pair of armed zealots, belts glittering with daggers. The two men paid them no mind, as they chattered in smooth Aramaic.

“Divine Mars,” Jason huffed—in Latin. “Keep us.” Jughead glared at him. The legate ignored his centurion.

The Romans moved quickly, snuck out through the Huldah Gate, and were loose in the city.

* * *

Arcas breathed in deeply. He tried to calm his nerves. He had never been afraid. Not like this. Not in Armenia, nor in Germania. But then, at least, there had been a hope of coming out alive.

But still. He would not try to save himself. All things equal, he would certainly prefer to live than not. But he would do his duty by the legion. There was nothing that mattered more than this.

Once he was certain the legate, his sister, and Jughead had put a bit of distance between themselves and the besieged fortress, he announced the plan to his comrades, who numbered a few below three hundred. There was some grumbling, but by and large, they acquiesced. He told them that, with fortune, they would kill only him, and the common soldiers would be allowed to go in peace.

So they threw open the gates.

Arcas marched out in Jason’s armor, the legionaries following behind him in a crude column, hands raised into the air. The zealots split aside, forming a gauntlet through which the Romans might pass. Jeers fell upon them from either side.

" _Idolaters! Dogs! You have despoiled the Lord’s city long enough!”_

The legionaries were drawn off to either side, held at sword point (or bludgeon point, as the case might be) by scruffy rebels. Arcas suddenly found himself alone and hemmed in on all sides by the scowling foe.

“You are the commander of the fortress?” demanded one, an older man wielding an ancient scythe. “You are Jason Cassius Florus?”

“I am,” Arcas lied. He winced. He had never been an especially good liar.

“Good!” That was a new voice. The man strode up to him. He moved with an accomplished swagger. Two retainers flanked him, with especially fine swords rattling at their hips. This new man was young enough, his beard clearly groomed very recently, hair slicked backwards. His eyes were a deep, light brown that verged on gold. He had the hard, sun-baked look of a herdsmen or a bandit, but he was dressed in a confection of fluttering purple robes. Like a king.

So, this was—

“And I am Menahem,” he said, in very poor, thickly accented marketplace Greek. “God’s chosen king.”

“Which god?” Arcas asked. And then he remembered. “Oh, forgive me. You only have the one, of course.”

He was being sincere, but Menahem took it as an insult. He struck Arcas across the face.

“You may mock us now, Roman. But not for long. The iniquities of your people are piled up. And on the day of the Lord, the images of wood and stone that you worship will profit you nothing.”

Arcas wanted to say he was not actually a Roman but decided it best to hold his tongue.

Menahem drew a gleaming dagger from his kingly robes. “Now. Shall I cut your throat here?”

“I cannot stop you,” Arcas replied, calmly.

Menahem touched the tip of the knife to his throat. The legionary winced. A trickle of blood poured into his clavicle. Then the rebel chieftain pulled the dagger back.

“No. I think you will live for a little while longer. You may profit us, yet, Roman.” Menahem kissed his dagger and returned it to its place at his waist. “ _Hallelujah_.”

Arcas breathed, and he was not sure if it was relief or disappointment. He’d prepared himself so thoroughly in spirit for a soldier’s death, to be denied it was a bit of a shock.

One of the rebels asked his king something in Aramaic. He gestured to the rest of the legionaries, who knelt at the feet of their conquerors, eyes hard and silent. He asked something.

Menahem answered in Greek, presumably for Arcas’ benefit.

“Send them to their gods.”

* * *

Verenike peered down through the window, heart pounding in her throat. She twirled a lock of raven hair around her finger. The streets were as full as she’d seen them since Passover. Only a little down the way, the mob had pulled down a statue of Victory, and now danced upon the shattered marble limbs and sleek helm of the fallen goddess.

“ _Halle-lu-jah! Halle-lu-jah! Halle-lu-jah!_ The Day of the Lord is come!”

She was sick with fear. For herself, certainly but not only. Cassia would have been with her brother at the Antonia Fortress, surely. And this would have been the first target of Menahem and his ragged army, no doubt. She could hardly believe Eleazer and his band had made common cause with such _canaille_ , even for a time.

“I should go out to her,” Verenike sighed. “I should go to the fortress and see—”

“I will go with you, if you go.” Elisheva sprang up from her spot on Verenike’s reclining couch. The golden-haired young maiden had an inborn contempt of danger that endeared and annoyed in equal measure.

“No,” Verenike said. “You will stay _here_. I asked you to come here for your safety to begin with, so it would make little sense—”

“I’m not afraid to die,” Elisheva said.

Verenike rolled her eyes. “Oh, darling, don’t start _again_ with this.”

“Death d—”

“Yes, yes, death died long ago, I _know_. We’ve had countless discussions on the matter.”

She was a bit short-tempered, but that was only because the images of Cassia being torn to pieces by a zealot mob ran again and again through her mind. Verenike went to grab a cloak. She never imagined she’d venture out into a riot to save a Roman’s life, but the past few months had been rather strange ones.

“Let me come with you,” Elisheva put a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“ _No_!” Verenike insisted, trying best she could to cow her friend.

And then a servant appeared on the terrace. “My lady, there is someone at the gates.”

Verenike’s heart leapt.

“Who?”

“A woman and two men.”

She rushed downstairs. Her heart swelled with relief. She threw the gates open and Cassia stumbled inside, followed closely by her brother and a third man. The third man was bleeding heavily from a wound on his brow. Jason nursed a bloodied arm. But Cassia seemed alright. Verenike collected her into a happy hug.

“Oh, God preserve you! You’re alright!” She kissed her on the forehead, and then reined herself in.

“Your god had nothing to do with it,” Cassia said, weakly.

“Would have been the least he could do to preserve my damned head,” the third man grumbled.

“I’m sorry,” Verenike said, hotly, arm still around Cassia’s shoulder. “And you are?”

“One of my centurions,” Jason groaned, leaning up against a pillar, pressing against the wound in his arm with the good hand.

The dark-haired centurion bowed and said, wryly: “at your service, _domina_.”

“Indeed,” Verenike said, not in fact especially caring, and still coming down from the heights of fear and worry. “Come,” she said to Cassia, who softly pulled out of her embrace. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“We’re the ones bleeding,” Junius barked, gesturing to himself and Jason.

“I see that,” Verenike replied.

Then Elisheva emerged from the depths of the house. “They are Romans,” she said.

Verenike whirled around. “You will not tell anyone they are here!” she half-pleaded, half-commanded.

Elisheva looked scandalized. “Of course not! I—I would never.” Then her eyes swung to Junius, whose left eye was nearly caked shut from blood. “My God!” she gasped. “Come here, friend,” she said.

Junius hung back, a bit cautious.

“Come here,” Elisheva led them all up onto the terrace, built around a mosaic fountain that Verenike’s father had installed the last time he was back from Antioch.

The three Romans sat themselves wearily at the sides of the pool. Verenike had her servants bring a bowl of grapes, and a jug of cool water. “Are you alright?” she asked Cassia, again.

“Yes,” the redhead barked. “Can’t say the same for my brother’s men.”

“Oh, good God,” Verenike sighed. “Did—”

“That madman Menahem—I’m sure he’s put them to the sword by now,” Junius said. He sat on the other end of the pool. Elisheva was dabbing away at the blood around his eye in her gentle, easy manner.

“Oh,” Verenike flung her arms around Cassia once more. “I’m so sorry.”

“ _They’re_ the dead ones,” Junius scoffed. 

“What exactly is the matter with this Menahem, anyhow?” Cassia demanded. “What are his pretensions o—”

“He believes he’s God’s chosen king,” Verenike said, slipping a grape between her lips. She offered one to Cassia. She did not take it. “The promised deliverer of Israel. _Mashiach._ ”

“But he’s not,” Elisheva made certain to affirm, great green eyes wide as she wiped the last of the blood from Junius’ sallow, boyish face. “God has already sent his promised king.”

“Oh, do _not_ start with this, _please_ ,” Verenike groaned.

“And who is your pretty friend?” Cassia asked. “Such golden hair! I—”

“My name is Elisheva,” she said. “I’m glad to greet you.”

“Pay her no mind,” Verenike said. “She’s very sweet but I’m afraid she’s gone mad in recent months. Fell in with a very odd crowd with some very _strange_ religious ideas and now she’s rightly convinced the whole world is coming to an end in a matter of years. At most.” 

“They are not _strange_ , Verenike, _this was all predicted in the scriptures, I’ve explained it to y—_ ”

“It mostly certainly was _not_ predicted in the scriptures, my dear,” Verenike replied. “ _Mashiach_ does not die on a cross, h—”

“It _was_ predicted, Peter showed m—”

“Peter who, dead Peter?”

“That is _not_ funny!” Elisheva snapped. “Do you have a Torah scroll in the house? I can—”

“Oh let the Torah scroll lie,” Verenike sighed.

Junius caught Elisheva’s hand the next time she came to wipe at his forehead with the rag. “What’s this about dying on crosses?” he asked.

“God’s promised king was slain on a cross,” she said, earnestly, clearly glad for the opportunity to evangelize. “Only some forty years past. Here in Jerusalem! But, see, when he comes again in power—”

“I told you, she’s insane,” Verenike said.

“These eastern superstitions are always so quaint,” Cassia smiled.

“I wish you wouldn’t mock me,” Elisheva said, forlorn.

“A crucified god!” Junius said. “Now, that is a new one.”

* * *

Arcas was led past the slain corpses of his fellow legionaries, tears in his eyes. Head bowed, the rebels forced him at spearpoint into the temple courtyard, past the court of the gentiles, into the court of Israelites. Here, a greater mass of zealots waited, mingled in with curious civilians. He saw even a few children hoisted on their mother’s shoulders.

Menahem trotted him out before the crowd, leading him by a cord around his wrists, like a bound dog. Arcas gritted his teeth.

“Behold!” Menahem boomed. “The commander of the Roman fortress!” He yanked on the rope and Arcas fell to his knees. The crowd howled. “So it will be for all who oppose the kingdom that is coming! _Hallelujah_!”

And then a voice—a zealot armed with a Roman _gladius_. Arcas wondered which of his comrades’ corpses it had been taken from.

“That is not Florus!”

The satisfied smile fell from Menahem’s lips.

“What? This is—”

“I have seen the Legate, my King. That is not him.”

Menahem rounded on his captive, furious. “Is it true?” he demanded in Greek. Arcas, who had not understood the Aramaic exchange, did not know of what they had spoken. 

“Is what true?”

“Are you Legate Florus?”

“Of course.”

Menahem kicked him in the stomach.

“Liar! I will skin you alive! I—I— _where is he_?”

Arcas doubled over in pain, and slowly rose again. “Far from here, by now. And when he returns with the legions from Caesarea—”

Menahem kicked him again. Then he turned to his men.

“It’s hardly been two hours. Florus is still somewhere in Jerusalem.” He paused for a moment and laid his hand on the pommel of his sword. “ _Find him_.”


End file.
